On the form, I wrote actor.
There was room to write something else. I could have put warehouse picker, which was what I'd done most recently, but the agency had called me about a film and I wanted the word to be true.
The coordinator checked my name.
"Jo?"
"Yes."
"You're our door."
He meant my position. There were six of us, each responsible for demonstrating a mistake in a workplace safety video. After lunch we'd do it correctly.
My mistake was keeping a service door shut.
The coordinator showed me the latch on the outside. He said it was exactly the kind of thing the film was meant to expose.
"He'll bang. He'll plead. Don't anticipate the cut."
He played a rehearsal recording on his phone.
Help. Open the door. I'm not an actor.
That made me smile.
"It's immersive," he said. "We need an honest response."
I asked what response he wanted.
"Concern. But stay in position."
We were in an annex of a factory that had closed the previous year. Someone had taped arrows on the floor. There were cameras on little tripods and a woman applying gray makeup to a man's face. The man complained that it itched.
I remember being reassured by that.
The coordinator gave me an earpiece. He said I wasn't to open the door until he said cut, even if the actor told me the take was over.
"He's very convincing."
I wanted to ask who it was. Then I imagined the coordinator describing me to the agency as the woman who hadn't understood her one instruction.
Across the corridor, another extra practiced telling people to use the main entrance. A third sat with a clipboard, recording how long everything took.
The door was green, with a small wired-glass window painted over. I put my hand against it. Cold.
"Positions."
Somewhere beyond the wall, machinery started.
"Rolling."
For a while nothing happened.
Then the handle turned.
"Hello?"
I looked toward the camera.
"Good," the coordinator said in my ear. "Keep looking worried."
The man inside pushed harder.
"I can see your camera. Open the door."
Smoke drifted beneath it, just as we'd been told it would. On stage I'd once worked with smoke that smelled sweet. This smelled like an old plug overheating.
"There's smoke," I said.
"We're seeing it."
The man struck the door with his fist.
"Help. I'm not an actor."
I looked at the woman with the clipboard. She made a mark.
His next blow made the latch jump in its socket.
"Is this still going?" I asked.
"Hold."
I put my hand against the metal.
Warm now.
The man coughed. Through the door he said something about his wife. I couldn't hear, so I moved closer.
"Tell her not to come. She's picking me up. Tell her not to come inside."
That hadn't been in the recording.
"What's his name?" I asked.
The coordinator said, "Stay with it, Jo."
The handle was too hot to hold. I let go.
Inside, something heavy fell. The banging stopped.
I lifted the latch.
"Jo. Back in position."
The door opened inward against a fallen rack. Heat struck my face. I shoved until there was room for my shoulder.
A man was on the floor beyond the rack, one arm over his mouth. He wore an ordinary blue shirt. His shoes had little leather tassels.
Fire ran across stacked packing material between us.
"Come this way," I said.
He tried. I saw him put his hand down, then pull it back.
I took out my phone and called the emergency number. In my ear the coordinator was saying my name, so I pulled the earpiece out.
"Who are you?" the man asked.
"Jo."
"Where's Martin?"
"I don't know."
"He told me to bring the originals."
The man pushed a bag beneath the rack. I caught the strap and hauled it toward the opening. His hand followed for a moment, reaching for mine.
Smoke hid him.
I crawled farther in, but the heat drove me backward before I could reach his wrist. Someone grabbed my belt and pulled me into the corridor. I fought them. It was the extra who'd been guarding the entrance.
Through the open loading door I saw the coordinator crossing the yard.
He'd taken off his headset.
We shouted after him. He kept walking.
The firefighters made us leave the building. I stood outside holding the bag until someone asked why I was bleeding.
The man had worked at the factory before it closed. His name was Peter. The bag held photographs, inspection records and a printed message telling him where to meet a manager that morning.
I gave everything to the police, including my contract.
The message in Peter's bag had a reply address at the bottom. It was the address I'd used to confirm my booking. The officer put the two pages beside each other and asked me to describe the coordinator again.
The fire investigators would later confirm it had been set deliberately. By then the police had our footage, our statements and Peter's documents.
An officer asked which company had hired the smoke equipment. I said I didn't know. Later I heard another extra tell him there hadn't been any equipment in the room. We'd assumed it was out of sight.
The woman with the clipboard was crying over her list of times.
I kept expecting someone to bring Peter out alive and furious.
His wife arrived in a little red car. She had a paper cup in each cup holder.
An officer went to meet her.
I don't remember deciding to approach her afterward. I only remember being beside her when she asked whether I'd seen him.
"I was at the door."
"Did he call for anyone?"
"He called for help."
She waited, so I told her about the warning he'd wanted me to give her. She looked toward the building, then back at me.
"You heard him?"
"Yes."
"And you were right there?"
I could still feel the latch in my hand, how easily it had lifted when I finally tried.
"I waited," I said. "They hadn't told me to stop."
